Jogging In NY

It was a long hot summer, this year, in New York. To some the Big Apple became a baked apple. I was away and missed the worst of the heat - not that I mind the it all that much. What the heat does do, however is to make the arrival of fall, all the more welcome. Autumn, for me, is the smell of burning leaves, fresh donuts, crispy apples. cider and rosy cheeks.

Autumn in New York, is also the season of the Big Apple Marathon and all the activities running up to it. The 26+ mile run enhances the city's image as a place for watching and looking. Rosy, plump cheeks bouncing down the street ... and not on little children. All those joggers are out in force warming up and prepping for the big race in November. I feel like a kid in a candy store... all the sweets to be seen.

This morning, driving cross town past Central Park the dedicated were running. I was having a difficult, not to say hard, time watching the display. There was one guy... legs sheathed in brilliant turquoise Lycra, loping down the sidewalk, bubble butt cheeks like firm ripe apples... As I drove by, I looked into the rear view mirror to get a front view of the tight rear... What a view... I don't think that this young man knew what underwear or a jockstrap was, from the look of his long, thick softy and sac lying down one leg pressed by the stretch fabric into his thigh.

I was well beyond him, waiting at the light for him to get closer so I could better appreciate his "fall foliage". Alas he ran in place for a few steps then turned back the way he came. There were lots of well trained, in shape, shapes to watch. Some were well covered against the morning chill, while others were still training in their wave-runner, split sided filmy shorts. The sheer fabric would slap between the passing breeze and the taught leg muscles as they pistoned the athletes ahead.

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One in particular, again, didn't appear to have anything between the sweet cheeks and the the chill, save the lightweight nylon cloth. To look at the scene, one would imagine that some great power had spread some irresistible food on the ground and the runners flocked to get and chase it like gulls on a dump! The circled and centered in all directions and in all shapes and sizes. There were tidy types and those who looked more "alternative". There were Clean shaven and bear types, those with every sinew and muscle defined and cut, buffed to a brilliance, and there were serious types who worked out enough to get the job done, but not be obvious. The common factor was the look of raging endorphins, a look of pure physicality... legs and chests and back... asses that shift, rising and falling to the running pace, bulges and baskets leading the way in front. . The Cocks both big and small, free hanging (unencumbered by jock or shorts, flipping and flapping from side to side, up and down.

There are times that I wish that I was a runner, or at least a jogger.

I can imagine working out and finding this bird on the path in front of me, of falling into stride beside him and casting looks, of striking up a conversation... about anything solely to keep my place. We would finish our run together. Rather he would finish his run and I would stop at the same time and discover that we work out at the same club on Central Park South. We wend our way back to the NYAC. In the course of our walk we learn that each of us like to swim and decided that since it is a weekend some laps are in order. My imagination works as hard as the runners, to envision the bodies unencumbered by clothing. This shimmering bluebird was a special challenge. He gave every appearance of being super hung... I can just imagine his great schlong and ball sack swinging and slapping as his feet hit the pavement.

In the club, we go to the locker room and strip for the pool. This is, after all a men's club, so most of the time the pool is suit less. After a few block following behind ( sometimes in front) watching the flexing of his ass cheeks, watching him undress is an experience.slips easily out of his Lycra top and skins off the tights, leaving only socks.. one foot reaches forward while the other stretches back and he bends over - spreading wide - the plum sized balls swing low. They mask, almost completely, the sausage sized penis just ahead. He has shaved his sack and the depression of the void where the scrotum joins the perineum is clearly defined. That little wrinkled ridge of flesh that runs for the balls backward was exposed, teasingly, almost to the pucker of his asshole. In this spectacle of swinging flesh the socks are gone. I, too am now naked and barely able to restrain a thickening cock of my own. We swim 20 -30 laps and my vantage point of the lane next to Carter ( I have by this point learned his name) lets me admire his well maintained body, under the water to watch the slipstream of current and bubble caress his form and flow his endowments aft. Every other lap is signal to change stroke and he alternates from crawl to backstroke so that when his hands hit the edge of the pool and he turns belly up to muscle to the other extreme, his balls and penis twist and flip eagerly following the rest of his body.

We really haven't talked much more than to cover name and basic pleasantries, but in the sauna following the swim, I learn the Carter is single, not dating, has a good job that leaves hi to schedule his time as he likes, and that he live not far from my apartment. As we toweled off and put on our street clothes, I had the feeling that he was eying me and my shape(s) as I was his.

I was trying to be discreet... he, too. We seem at ease talking, and not too different from each other. Lunch in the clubroom follows easily, as does walking home in the same direction. I have long since decided that timidity would never get me anywhere. After spending a couple of hours with him, I had the feeling that Carter was pretty open, and probably bi, if not gay and that he and I could hit it off in ways other that intellectual..

I wanted a taste of those swinging eggs, and I wasn't going to get it unless I asked, made a move. So - I asked Carter... since there are no women in evidence, photos, ring, where his preferences lay. His response was to brush the back of his hand on my cheek and trace a line with his finger down my chest, then a a pat on the sofa to sit down, an invitation... to talk... to touch. There was now no place to be with shyness so I reminded him of the picture he presented me as he dressed and undressed in the club, as i saw him jogging. I told him that I would like to have my mouth press and caress his basket as had the Lycra. Each pulse of his leg to the ground causing the stretchy fabric to compress and squeeze the slightly swollen flesh of his rod. I described how I saw his scrotum from behind as he bent to dry his feet, each as it was raised to the bench, the way the fleshy eggs drew down the sack, and the indentation, just above, below the perineum, how I wanted to fill the dent with my tongue.

As we sat talking and looking into each other's eyes, there was movement.... in my jeans and his.

He reached over and unbuttoned my shirt, then his.

He stood and said that my imaginings were within the realm of the possible. With that he stood and reenacted the peeling away that I had witnessed in the locker room, and before that in my minds eye in the park. This time, when he maneuvered to pull off his socks, he motioned me to come behind him and satisfy my urges. Carter mounted the coffee table, spread his feet wide and bent over at the waist to grip his ankles... there they hung, those beautiful nuts, gently swinging in their bag, just hiding the glory rod that hung from the bush in front.

they were hairless, clean shaven, lushly relaxed, inviting tasting. I applied my tongue where they floated free and licked upward... the smooth skin drifting from my taste buds... my flickering tip teasing the luscious depressions, my nose brushing up into the soap-clean-smelling cleavage of his cheeks. I lowered down and took both orbs into my mouth and played in the fleshy fields, gently tugging, rolling and massaging them. I drew them deep into my mouth - my nose burrowing in his crack and sex-bud. I balanced, both he and I, with my hands and arms around his hips stroking and learning his musculature, sometimes discovering the head of his glans beneath his uncut foreskin. His purrs and moans spurred me on. I suggested with motions and eyes that he might be more comfortable and I might have greater range if he were to lie on his back, across the table and sofa. That break gave me the opportunity to, briefly, study his face, his deep blue eyes; his lips, very full and rich and so kissable. Beyond him, the autumn leaves were falling and fluttering.... began my hands again and his in my hair... on my face. I stroked down his well trained chest, tracing across his belly, twisting and teasing his thatch... lifting his meat... one hand kneading the sack, the other toying with his fleshy stretchy hood. I dipped my lips replacing my hand. Teeth were perfect to lift and stretch the soft skin... to pull it back, exposing the hardening , firming head and dewy glan slit. I plunged my face over it - down into the curls. Seven inches glanced off the back of my throat. Carter cried out!

I tightened the seal, sucked in and pulled off of him. My hands gently spread his knees apart and I focused on the original inspiration... nibbling down his turgid shaft and lapped up, first one ball, then the other, then both.

My mouth worked rhythmic miracles on those orbs, pulling them to the back, lips closing on the root of the sack. I managed to hold them there and darted my tongue down the wrinkled rib of perineal flesh and teased his rosebud.

I could have gone on for hours tasting the flesh, sensing the textures.

I let the balls fall from my mouth and put the full attention of my lips to his ass, the creamy cheeks, the wrinkles aureole of shaved ass-cunt, rose-bud. I gave it a full bathing. I coaxed it to relax from tightly formed bud to flatten open, like a flower, to the second ring of muscle. I darted in like an insatiable snake. Movements sometimes sharp, sometimes gentle. He writhed. He pulled me up and away to kiss me deeply, to taste from my mouth his own scents and juices.

I felt as though his mouth wanted intercourse with mine... he got it. I opened myself to him... I fucked him back. His hands played eagerly over the field of my body, my chest, so faintly haired and not overly muscled.

Carter explored my bush, my thighs, legs, where ever he could reach. He moved my body as though I were weightless to nibble and taste me as I had him. It felt glorious - every nerve ending was alive and bursting with sensation.

He eased his mouth over my phallus and swallowed it in one deft motion. My balls always pull up, tighten, hide against me, when I am naked and excited. He placed his lips and mouth and tongue where they usually swing free and worked the out... He sucked them from their hiding, he lick the tender flesh - there and in the hollow where my thighs meet my groin. I was wriggling with delight. He sucked me in and drew me out - my balls, my cock. He opened the bud of my ass and wet it, wet a finger and probed my inner skin. We were alternately moving in and out of each other. We reversed places and dominance, if you will, though there was no domination... just shifts of initiation. I wet his ass, once more and opened the bud to a flower.

Lifting his legs up and out, I placed my cut meat, still wet from his mouth, against his flower and eased into him. He tightened, cried out for me to pause. A wave of relaxation and I pushed further at his signal, coming to rest, fully inside him. My balls, hung free after his ministrations and the slapped his cheeks.

I began the coming and going, easing in and out. He picked up my beat, increased the tempo and we thrust wildly and excitedly to each other. I tried to be a part of him by being inside him and he trying to be come part of me by taking my in... Leaning away from each other we watched the consummation of our bodies. Each place a hand on the other's chest or belly. Each wrapped a fist around his cock. Spittle from each of us lubed it and we worked in unison. He stroked himself at the root and I polished the plum head. Our tensions and energies were electric... all senses super alive... we came into each other... I into his gut and he into my hand.

We shriveled and collapsed into a rest and repose. Peaceful in each other's hold.

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